


Talk To Me, Dance With Me

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-17
Updated: 2011-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:16:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since the very beginning, she has been asking Santana to do the same thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talk To Me, Dance With Me

Title: Talk To Me, Dance With Me  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: G  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: None.  
Summary: Since the very beginning, she has been asking Santana to do the same thing.  
A/N: So, I accidentally wrote this and then realized twenty-four hours later that it didn't fit into the fic I wrote it _for_. It has now be relegated to fluffy ficlet.

She’s six years old when her parents enroll her in ballet, and she falls in love—slowly. Very slowly. It’s one of those things that _seemed_ like a great idea when she was watching the pretty ladies on TV, but when it comes to following the steps in real life…

She’s eleven now, and dancing is her favorite thing to do. She still doesn’t really understand all the French words the instructor uses, but she can do the moves perfectly. She figures that counts a lot more than the words do.

The other girls in the class aren’t as good as her, which makes her feel awesome. Some are thinner, which used to bother her until she remembered how good cheeseburgers taste. Maybe they’re lighter than she is, but like her mom says, if they’re not getting all the fat and sugar out of life, it probably isn’t worth it.

Besides, they don’t get even _half_ the praise she does in a normal class period. So, suck it.

She’s stretching when she sees the dark eyes staring at her in the mirror. Creepy, okay, but also kind of flattering. Her mom always says staring is a mark of interest, and not necessarily the kind that ends in kidnapping.

“Hi!” she calls back over her shoulder, amused when the eyes widen and the girl attached to them looks around. “Yeah, you. Hi.”

“Hey,” the girl replies guardedly, sinking down in her seat and pulling her baseball cap an inch lower.

“You’re staring,” Brittany observes with a smile. “You just join the class?”

She’s expecting a shy, nervous reply, which she is entirely prepared to buffer with reassurances. To her surprise, the girl tugs on the brim of her cap again and snorts loudly.

“I don’t _do_ girly dancing,” she says sharply. “Or frilly tutus. Or _pink_. That stuff’s for suckers.”

“ _You’re_ for suckers,” Brittany shoots back, hurt. “Dancing is awesome.”

“ _Baseball_ is awesome,” the girl grumbles. “Dancing is for wimps. Are you a wimp?”

Brittany sets her jaw and turns back to the mirror huffily. Her mom always says to just ignore mean people. Eventually, they always get bored and go away.

Which is what the girl _should_ do. Instead, she gets up and stands right behind Brittany, watching her every move. Her hands are grubby, curled into fists at her sides, and her t-shirt is ripped near the bottom. Maybe she’s homeless.

“Go away,” Brittany tells her, annoyed. “I don’t talk to jerks.”

“I’m not a jerk!” the girl replies. She is clearly insulted, which Brittany thinks is just plain weird. If anyone should be upset right now, it’s _her_.

“You called me a wimp,” she sniffs. “That’s something only jerks do. And this is _my_ ballet studio, not yours. You’re tres—um. Tres—“

“Passing,” the girl fills in helpfully, scuffing her foot on the floor. “And I didn’t _call_ you a wimp. I asked if you _were_ a wimp. It was just a question.”

“It was a jerk-question,” Brittany informs her. The girl sighs.

“I’m sorry,” she grumbles, sounding as though she’s never said the words before in her life. Brittany lifts her chin and says nothing. The girl scowls, kicking again at the floor. “I said sorry! What else do you want?”

“I want you to dance with me,” Brittany says, mostly because it sounds good coming out of her mouth. The girl’s dark eyes get big, her mouth opening in a little round “O.”

“What? No way!”

“Totally,” Brittany replies firmly. “You’re going to dance with me, and you’re going to see that dancing is cool. And not for wimps.” She thinks for a second, then adds, “It is kind of girly, though. Which is why it’s so cool.”

The girl makes a face. “I don’t want to—“

“You want me to forgive you?” Brittany interrupts. The girl’s shoulders slump.

“Yes.”

“Then dance with me. Dancing is like glitter glue. It fixes everything.”

“Glitter glue falls apart—never mind.” Shaking her head, the girl thumps a hand atop her own head, shifting her hat uneasily. “Fine. I’ll dance. But no tutus.”

“Done.” Brittany reaches for her hand and gives it a light shake, pleased when the girl doesn’t yank away instantly. “I’m Brittany, by the way.”

“Santana,” the girl mumbles. Brittany’s smile widens.

“I think we’re gonna be friends.”


End file.
